


The Demons Down Under the Sea

by the_100_sin_bin_1985



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fight Sex, Half-Sibling Incest, Incest, Incest Kink, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-19 00:25:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16129778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_100_sin_bin_1985/pseuds/the_100_sin_bin_1985
Summary: Sequel to "More Please", in which Bellamy saved the other two pills, there's more to that sibling swordfight than meets the eye, and they get one final goodbye before everyone goes into cryo.





	The Demons Down Under the Sea

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [More, Please](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10381986) by [the_100_sin_bin_1985](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_100_sin_bin_1985/pseuds/the_100_sin_bin_1985). 



* * *

**_“I was a child and she was a child_ **  
**_In this kingdom by the sea_**  
**_And we loved with a love that was more than love . . .”_ **

**\--Edgar Allan Poe**

* * *

“You fight like Azgeda,” she hisses, and she means it to sting.

But he's not an idiot, he sees her as clearly as he ever did, and he hears the hollow words masking all the other, darker things she isn't saying.  He's never had any particular love for Ice Nation, he knows it isn’t a _compliment,_ but they aren't really talking about Ice Nation, are they?

On the surface, she’s marking him as Other, as an interloper who crashed in through her ceiling and brought the old ways, the old tribes, back inside.

But that’s not why she’s so angry.

Underneath her words, another layer: _How dare you befriend a woman who ran her sword through my chest and left me for dead._

And underneath that, buried deeper still:

_How dare you build a family with people who aren’t me._

And he’s _good,_ dammit, which makes her furious, he's effortless with a sword in his hand, graceful and elegant and she hates him for it.  "Not a lot to do in space for six years," he quips, knowing the light, casual tone will make her blood boil. "You pick up a few things."

It's the _injustice_ of the whole thing that burrows deep into her flesh and won't let go. Bellamy never wanted to be a Grounder. Hated them, in fact. It was the one place she could run where he wouldn’t follow. The first thing she’d ever had that was hers.

_This isn’t fair._

One step ahead of her, all her life. Every book a hand-me-down. Everything she learned, known to him first, from sex to mathematics. Dependent on him for everything.  Nothing of her own. Nowhere to stand where she was free of his shadow.

Not until Lincoln.

Lincoln was the first thing in her life that belonged to her alone.  The first person who looked at her and saw only Octavia.

She grew to love him, and that love was real, and so was everything that happened afterwards, the darkness that fell over her heart when Charles Pike pulled that trigger; but she knows, now, which she didn't know at fifteen, that before there was love, there was just the simple yearning for a place - any place - where she wasn't The Girl Under the Floor.

These are _her_ people. He's on _her_ territory. Guns are his thing; swords are hers. He never picked one up in his life until he went to space.  And she wants to show him, to prove it to him, to knock him flat on his ass and make it look effortless and show him how strong she became without him.  Show him that when he abandoned her, she didn't break.

But it's not fucking working, because he's _too good,_ she's forced to strain every muscle and tendon in her hard, lean body just to keep up, because after six years on the Ring he’s basically as well-trained as she is.

One more thing that was supposed to be hers, and now she has to share it again.

Overshadowed even here.

 _Go to hell,_ she thinks fiercely, swinging for his calf, and getting at least the satisfaction of slicing through fabric, though he drops low and evades her before she can draw first blood.

She's never wanted to make him bleed before, but now it's all she can think about.  Not to cause him pain - or, not just - but because he needs to know that she can. Needs to know she can't be Octavia to him anymore, there _is_ no Octavia anymore, and everything about him is a liability.

His next words are a trap, and she falls for it, letting down her guard for just long enough to lose the edge she'd been steadily gaining back. "If Echo leaves," he tells her evenly, parrying her blow and twisting to shift his weight to his back foot, "I'm going with her."

She freezes, and he keeps moving, and he holds his advantage long enough to draw first blood.

Fuck him for forcing her to find something to grudgingly respect about Echo, since she can no longer deny the thoroughness of her training.  She's damn near as good as Indra.

Fuck him for throwing her off-kilter, for getting the drop on her, the tip of his sword nicking the pale crescent of exposed flesh above her leather belt. First blood is his.  Just like he was first at everything else. All her life, running to catch up. All her life, ten steps behind.

She hates this feeling. She hates how much his approval still matters, how sharply it stings to watch him look around this place and judge her for what she made of it.  Hates how badly she wants him to look at her like he used to do when she was his whole world.

 _I did fine without you,_ she thinks coldly, pushing the memories of the Dark Year back into the furthest recesses of her mind, where they belong.   _I’m not a damn kid anymore, waiting to follow your lead.  You left me to figure everything out on my own, and I did._

Fuck him for leaving when she needed him and for coming back when she didn’t.  And fuck him for leaving _again._ For _her._ For _them._ Fuck him for building a life with no room for her in it, while she was here, fighting every day to hold her people together, because he was a year too late.

"She's not your enemy," he says, reading the thoughts on her face without her even having to speak them.  "You don't even know her."

"I know what she's done," she fires back at him, hurling words at him between sword thrusts like they're weapons too.  "Gina at Mount Weather. Ilian at the conclave. Me on that damn cliff."

He feints left, and she falls for it, like a fucking idiot; only by spinning out of the way as fast as her feet will carry her does she dodge another slash to the ribs.  He’s not smiling, this isn’t a joke to him, she knows he’s not playing around. He’s pissed at her too, and he’s not holding back. He meant it when he said he wasn’t afraid of her.

She'd wanted to hurt him, with Gina, with Ilian, but they both know why she's really angry.

The number of people left who aren’t afraid of her is small enough she can count them on one hand. Less than that, really. Two fingers.

And one of them is gone.

Kane, whose betrayal still stings like poison.  Kane, who was always supposed to have her back. He always had.  He’d _promised._

But he'd chosen a new family over Octavia, too.  He'd stayed by her side, faithful and loyal, until one day suddenly he wasn't, and watching him look at her the way he'd once looked at Pike was like feeling solid ground turn abruptly to water beneath her feet.

She doesn’t know when she’ll see Kane again. She doesn’t know what she’ll do when she does.

She didn't really want him to die, she just wanted him to _stop,_ and she knows herself well enough to realize that severing his head from his neck with her own sword wouldn't silence his voice in the back of her mind, that ceaseless echoing murmur, the way he pushes and pushes and pushes, the way he refuses to stop trying to turn her back from Blodreina into Octavia Blake again.

If she'd killed Marcus Kane, he would have haunted her forever.

But there's no peace anyway, even with Kane and Abby long since deserted to Shallow Valley, because Bellamy's come back to take Kane's place as the seed of Blodreina's destruction, the one whose very existence threatens to topple everything she's built.

He can't know how hard this is.  How tightly she's holding onto Wonkru with both hands.  He has no fucking idea.

He was on the Ark, he was _home,_ he was _safe,_ he was with friends, he had food and water and shelter and only half a dozen people to keep alive.  He was probably _happy._  He was probably _bored._  God, she hates him for that, for the mental picture she can’t force out of her mind, Bellamy in their old quarters, lying in their old bed, reading a book, looking out the window, peaceful and calm.

Thinking about her.

She knows he was thinking about her.

 _How nice for you,_ she thinks, gritting her teeth as he parries her blows almost effortlessly, three in a row, _clang, clang, clang,_ pushing her back with such force she actually has to take a step backwards, in retreat, which makes her cheeks burn red with fury.

"We all have things to answer for," he murmurs in a low voice.  "Things that shouldn’t be forgiven, but are, because we did them for our people. For our family."

She thinks about all the sins on Bellamy's conscience that he put there to save her life.

She thinks about the Dark Year.

Forgiveness isn't a word they believe in, down here.

"Echo’s no different," he goes on.  "She was an Azgeda spy, but now she’s with me. Your brother. Who is trying very hard to understand who you are now, compared to six years ago.  All I’m asking is that you do the same."

Parry. Thrust. _Clang, clang, clang._ Why can't he stop talking about Echo and Raven and Monty, why can't he see what it's doing to her? Why does he need her permission so he can disappear again and leave her behind?

She takes her eyes off his sword hand, and it’s a mistake. She can’t help herself.  Her gaze lifts to meet his own, dark and intense and pulsing with emotion, and that’s when he gets the drop on her, knocking the sword out of her hand and slamming her up against the stone wall, hard, too close for her to push him away.  She’s trapped.

"Go fuck yourself, Bell," she hisses.  "I don't let anyone talk to me that way.  Not anymore."

"I'm not Wonkru, Octavia.  I'm not your royal subject.  Not your enemy either."

"Everyone is one or the other," she grits out, teeth clenched.  "Now let me go."

She fists his shirt in both hands, shoving, but he doesn't budge.

 _Someone who isn't afraid of you,_ he'd said about Cooper as he entered, and she wonders if it's true.  She wonders how much of her own strength comes from the weakness of others - that when she pushes, they don't push back.

But Bellamy never gives in until he decides he wants to.

"Let me go," she demands again.  But he shakes his head, sword clattering noisily to the ground so he can seize both her wrists in his own.  She's pinned to the wall like the dead butterfly Pike showed them in class, the first and only butterfly she'd thought, back then, that she'd ever see.

"No."

"I'll scream."

"Nah, you won't."

"I will.  Ten Wonkru guards will come running in here and tear you limb from limb.  Starting with Miller.”

“You're underestimating Miller. And besides, you locked the door.”

“They’ll break it down.”

“You won’t scream,” he says, calm, almost gentle, not even fazed.

“What’s to stop me?” she starts to say.

But he already knows how to stop her.

When his mouth crashes into hers, she doesn’t want to want it.  She wants to hate it, wants to be able to push him away, to tell him “No more,” to declare that those feelings are dead and gone, locked away with all the other feelings she had to kill and bury in order to survive in this place.

But they’re not gone.

She doesn’t hate it.

She can’t resist, even a little.

She imagines Cooper walking in, drawing her sword, incest secondary to the far greater sin in front of her.

_No one touches Blodreina._

But he’s not touching Blodreina.  He’s touching her.

Bellamy lets go of her wrists as he kisses and kisses and kisses her, and even _that_ makes her furious, that he’s so sure of her he doesn’t even need to hold her at bay anymore.  And he’s right. Because the second her hands are free, instead of pushing him away and fleeing, she grips the waistband of his jeans and yanks him forward, pulling him even closer into her as he moans into her mouth.

One knee gently nudges her thighs open, as their bodies tangle together, and then heat explodes inside her as she finds the bliss of friction, his muscled thigh against her cunt.  She pulls him closer.

They haven’t done this in so long.  It was a third of her lifetime ago, the last time she felt his tongue sweep into her mouth like this, his hands roaming up and down her body like this.  And she was a child, then, she didn’t know what it meant, why it was secret, what he was doing. It was just love and pleasure. Simple, sweet. Innocent.

But that was seven years ago.

She’s not that soft girl anymore, she’s flinty and cold and all alone, and nobody’s put their hands on her body like this in so long she’s forgotten what it felt like.  Bellamy doesn’t ask Blodreina’s permission, doesn’t supplicate or beg. Bellamy _takes._  He unfastens her corset and tosses it on the ground so quickly she barely realizes what’s happened until his hands have slid up her bare skin, beneath her shirt, and found her breasts.

“Fuck,” she whispers, back arching off the wall as his thumbs find her nipples.  “Bellamy, what are you doing?”

“I’ve been waiting to touch you for six years,” he murmurs back hoarsely, breath hot against her skin, kissing the hollow below her ear over and over, hands drifting down to her waist to unsnap her jeans and let his fingertips graze the flat smooth curve of her stomach just above the black cotton of her panties.  “I don’t want to fight with you anymore, Octavia. I just want this.”

“Bellamy . . .”

He steps back, pulls his shirt off over his head, drops it on the ground. She doesn’t want to stare, but she can’t help it.  He’s still the most perfect man she’s ever seen, still the first love of her life, and her body still remembers every inch of his body even though she wishes she didn’t.

“We can’t,” she reminds him fiercely.  “Not like we stumbled onto a whole bucket of contraceptive chips down here, Bellamy.  And our doctor’s gone, remember? Your new friends stole her. Thanks a lot for that.”

“Is that all that’s stopping you?” he whispers, eyes dark with intensity on hers.  “If there was a way around that, you would say yes?”

Instantly she’s furious at herself.  

_Too much.  You said too much._

It should have been a harder _No,_ a crueler _No,_ a _No_ that keeps her in control, but instead it's a _Yes, If Only_ , and that was a mistake.  She'd swung wide and missed, that was clumsy, now she's she left herself exposed instead of pushing him away behind higher walls.  She'd meant the jibe about Abby to sting - one more way he’d ruined what she built here, one more thing of hers he'd taken away - but she fucked up.  Now he knows she's thought this moment all the way through to its natural conclusion.  Now he knows it's what her body wants, even if she won't let herself have it.

“There are other things we could do, without that risk,” he murmurs, and _fuck it,_ she finally surrenders and just tells him the plain truth.

“That would be torture,” she hisses, unable to keep her hands from reaching out to caress the smooth planes of his muscled chest.  His whole body is somehow entirely different and exactly the same.  He's older and harder, too.  “To have you that close but not all the way. That would be worse than nothing.”

“Say it, O," he breathes, moving in closer and closer, softening beneath her hands, and _fuck,_ she's _so wet_ already, how does he do this to her, _still?_

“Stop," she says, but she can't push him away, even with both palms already planted on his chest.

“Say it.  I need to hear you say it.”

“There’s no point.”

"Say it."

"Go fuck yourself."

"Say it, Octavia," he says one last time, and something inside of her shatters.

“I still want it,” the words tumble out unbidden, she tries to scoop them up and swallow them back down but she can't, they pour out of her throat like an avalanche, “I want you, I never _stopped_ wanting you, I want you to fuck me, I want you inside me, Bell, _you win,_ okay? But you're an asshole for making me _say_ it because _we can’t.”_

He kisses her mouth, hard and fierce and somehow . . . _triumphant?_ Can that be right?  Like she’s given the right answer anyway, the answer he wanted, even though it was a no. “Bellamy,” she starts to say again, then trails off as he makes his way back to the other side of the room where he dropped his jacket before the fight started, and pulls something out of one of the pockets.

She knows what it is before she even sees it, before she watches him pull a tiny object out of a tiny plastic bag and pop it in his mouth.

Her heart stops beating.

"There were two more," she breathes.  "I forgot."  She stares at him, a piece of the past suddenly clicking into place for the first time.  "I wondered, after the first night, what you were saving them for," she says, as he moves slowly back towards her.  "Why we didn't just use them all and then you'd get more.  I didn't understand until later what they'd cost you.  But you were saving the second one for after the dance, weren't you? That was the other part of the surprise."

He nods, neither of them speaking aloud the reason why they never got the chance to use it.

Because that was the night Octavia was arrested, and they didn't see each other again until they landed on Earth.

But he kept them.

For seven years.

Did he bring them with him on the Dropship, before all hopes for the kind of reunion with her he might have wanted were dashed by her desire for freedom from everything related to her old life, even him?  Or had he left them where they were, out of guilt, assuming it was over between them after their mom died - _floated because Bellamy tried make Octavia happy_ \- and only brought them back just now?  Had he gone to their quarters, and found them? Had he imagined this moment when he was up on the Ark, dreaming of having a second chance with her?

“I can't believe you kept these,” she tells him, heart pounding as he returns to her, hands cradling her cheeks, mouth pressing kisses into her hair.  “You kept them. For me.”

“I had hope,” he says, and she can hear him smiling even with her eyes closed.  “I knew I'd come back to you someday.  And that you'd come back to me.”

She pushes him away, heart cracking a little.  He doesn’t want her. He wants the past back. He doesn’t see _her._  “You still don’t understand.”

He looks stricken, like she's slapped him in the face.  “I'm trying my best here, O, but it's not like you've given me much of a chance to.”

“I’m not the same person I was,” she snaps, voice wobbling a little, hating herself for it, fighting back tears.  She’d meant the Abby thing as a recrimination, pointing out that it was his fault Diyoza had swept off to the forest with her and Kane, but truthfully, she was relieved.  They’d barely had the chance to exchange two words with Bellamy, but still, it had been a close call.

Everyone else down here, she could trust. Cooper would never tell him.  Miller would never tell him. Indra would never tell him.

But _Kane_ might.

Maybe to unburden his conscience, maybe to warn him about the monster she’d become in his absence, maybe to help him understand how different their lives over the past six years had been.  Kane might have told him everything. 

Bellamy's seen the fighting pits, but he doesn’t know the rest, and his horror at that was bad enough. Octavia imagines Kane telling Bellamy about what she made him do, what she made all of them do, and she feels vomit begin to rise in her throat.

He'd never look at her this way again, if he knew.

“What is it?” he asks, reading something dark and miserable on her face, and suddenly she’d rather do anything right now than talk to him, so she just . . . stops fighting it.

Cunt aching in anticipation _(he took the pill, she just has to keep him from coming inside her for fifteen minutes, she can make him hold out that long, but_ she _can come as soon as she wants),_ she yanks his belt open and pulling his cock out of his jeans, gripping it so fiercely that he gasps in astonishment.  She backs up against the wall, pulling him with her, lets go of his cock just long enough to tug her jeans and panties down over her hips, and then he’s inside her.

For the first time since she was fifteen years old.

And it's still _perfect._

“Octavia,” he whispers, her name tumbling out of his mouth, landing hard and sharp in the ears of someone used to being addressed by a different title now.  

She kisses him, letting her tongue sweep fiercely against his, to stop him from saying it again.  

His body responds to the cue of hers, hips crashing into hers hard, hard, hard, but it’s not enough, not nearly enough.  They’re constricted, too much goddamn fabric, jeans pulled tight around thighs, limiting the angles. She can’t get what she needs this way.

“I want more,” she tells him, pushing him away just far enough to kick off her boots and tug off the rest of her clothes.  “This isn’t working for me."

He follows her lead, without question.  (Nice, for once.)  His clothes join hers in a cluttered heap as she lowers herself to the floor. Hard, chilly concrete, but she doesn’t give a shit.  She won't be cold long.  Bellamy sinks down on top of her, body heavy and hot and already sheened faintly with sweat, and then he’s inside her once again, and _now_ it’s right.

It's everything.

“More,” she orders him.  

She doesn’t say “please.”  But he doesn’t seem to need to hear it.

The first and last time Bellamy entered her she was fifteen, hopeful and innocent and bubbling over with love, receiving it like a gift he’d brought home to make her happy. Now it’s something different, something wilder, more desperate.  Something harder and darker, like she is.  Like both of them have become.  Something dangerous and urgent and raw. He slides in deep and hard, one smooth firm thrust until he bottoms out inside her, shocking the breath out of her lungs. But even _that’s_ giving him too much power over her, so she slides one slim, powerful leg up around his waist, grips his shoulders and flips him over onto his back, pinning him down onto the ground so she can ride him.

“Octavia,” he moans, eyes fluttering closed as her hips crash into his.  “ _Fuck,_ Octavia . . .”

“Don’t tell me about how much you missed this,” she whispers, “how you dreamed about me on the Ark. Don’t tell me nostalgic stories. Don’t bring me the past. I don’t want to think about the past.”

“Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to be here with me now.  When I need you.”

“I’m here.  I’m here.”

“I _need_ you, Bellamy.”

“I’m right here, O,” he promises her, panting, gasping, lifting his hands to cover hers where they rest against his chest, as she lowers her mouth to kiss him.

There’s been no one inside her since Ilian, and that was six years ago. She knows how to make do herself now, Bellamy taught her that, and it came in handy from time to time, but it isn’t the same.  She can make herself come with her fingers on her clit, the way he first showed her, but it’s never what she really wants. She wants to be _fucked._  She wants to be _pounded._  She wants a big man with a big cock slamming into her until her body reverberates with the force.  She loved it with Lincoln, Lincoln fucked her the way she didn't even realize she'd wanted Bellamy to do it, and taught her all kinds of new tricks besides.  She’s not submissive and shy anymore, waiting for her big brother’s guidance. She can fuck him right back.

They’ll both have bruises tomorrow, and the cold concrete will make them sore down to the bone, but Cooper left them sparring, and the door’s locked; they won’t even need a cover story for the aches and pains.

“I missed the way your cock feels in me,” she tells him, and his eyes widen in shock.  If she was trying to remind him of how different she is now from the last time they did this, she’s doing a hell of a job.  "I only got to have it once, but I missed it."

“O,” he mutters uncertainly, “O . . .”

“Shut up,” she orders him, and snaps her hips sharply, _hard, hard, hard,_ riding him so fierce and so deep that he can’t talk anymore.

Her hips move with a practiced, bittersweet familiarity.

She used to move like this, on top of Helios.

She used to move like this, on top of Lincoln.

Both dead and gone, bones turned to ash . . . one in a funeral pyre, one in an apocalypse.

But Bellamy is here.

“You feel so good,” she tells him, because he does, God, he does, he fills her so perfectly, he stretches her open until she’s deliciously sore, it’s like she’s almost _whole_ again, and she knows it can’t last forever but it’s so fucking satisfying right now.

“Is this the way Lincoln liked it?” Bellamy whispers suddenly, like he can’t help himself, and she freezes.

No one has said his name out loud to her in so long.

She can't quite tell if she's more furious at him for daring to ask, or more aroused at the abrupt realization that this is something Bellamy has pictured, probably more than once.

“What’s the right answer, Bell?” she hisses at him, leaning forward to grip his shoulders, eyes flashing, holding him prisoner with her gaze. “Yes, I’m fucking you the way my dead boyfriend wanted to be fucked, so I can remember how it felt? Or no, Lincoln liked it other ways, Lincoln liked things I’ll never do with you, because they were his and not yours?  What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know,” he confesses, something in him collapsing.  “I don’t know.”

"How many people did _you_ fuck, since me? I knew Gina, Gina never fucked you like this.  Who did you fuck on the Ark? Raven? Echo? You don't see me asking _you_ about it."

"Octavia . . ."

"Because they don't _matter_ now," she tells him, cupping his jaw in her hands firmly, keeping him from turning his head away from her.  "Nobody matters now but us.  Nobody's in this room but us."

He closes his eyes.  He can't look at her. 

Whatever dam inside him has been keeping the flood of shame at bay, it's shattered into a hundred pieces now.  She can see it on his face.  _You want to fuck your baby sister.  You think about her fucking other men.  You lay awake at night and jerk your own cock and picture her being fucked by her dead boyfriend.  The boyfriend whose death you tried to stop but couldn't._

His cock begins to soften inside her, and his jaw twitches, like he's trying not to cry, and Octavia's never been in this position before, never been the one who has to take care of _him._

“Come here,” she says, sitting back on her heels, pulling him up to a seated position, then repositioning herself on his lap.  “Come here.” She wraps one arm around his broad strong back, fingers drifting instinctively to the exact place she used to hold him in that narrow little bed as he moved on top of her, as the other down to his cock.  He sighs, sinks forward, his head resting against her shoulder.

“There you go,” she murmurs.  “That’s good, big brother. I got you.  It’s okay. I got you.”

“O,” he mumbles brokenly into the hollow of her throat.  “Please, O. Don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” she promises him, kissing his hair.  "I won't, Bell, I'm here, I got you.  I'm here.  I'm right here."

She rubs his back like he used to rub hers when she couldn't sleep, sometimes letting her fingers drift up the back of his neck to tangle into his hair, sometimes sliding so low she can prompt a muffled, dreamy moan out of him by caressing the slope of his ass.  And she jerks his cock, still wet from her cunt, letting her hand move up and down in a loose fist, gently, comfortingly, until she feels it begin to surge back into desperate hardness again.  But she doesn't rush it.  This is nice.  This feels like before.  Intimate, soft, close.  It's strange and delicious to feel Bellamy so submissive in her arms.  She remembers the first time, the electric burst of power inside her when she realized that the things she was doing with her mouth and hands gave him so much pleasure that he was completely vulnerable to her.  She remembers standing in the doorway of the bathroom, watching him jerk himself off in the shower, no idea what he was doing but wanting so badly to make him make that noise for her.  And now here he is, sweating, shuddering, liquid and boneless in her arms, his dark head buried in her shoulder, his fingers digging into her back like he's drowning and she's ballast, and somehow all the horrors of the past seven years fall away.

“It isn’t wrong,” she murmurs into his hair.  “It can't be.  Not when it’s the only thing that makes us feel like this.  Not when you’re the only one who can . . .” Her voice trails off, but he hears what she isn’t saying.

Lincoln was perfect, Lincoln was everything to her, but even Lincoln wasn’t Bellamy.  Even Lincoln couldn’t give her _this._

“Me too,” he pants into her skin, ragged, halting, orgasm so close she can feel his cock throb in her hand like a living thing.  “Me too, O. Just you. Only you.”

“It’s not just because you were the first,” she tells him, voice shaky, rasping, as she clutches his jaw in both hands and tilts his face up from her breast to meet her gaze.  “It’s not just that. That’s not why.” He nods. He doesn’t need her to explain.

She rises up onto her knees, then, positions him at her entrance, and sinks back down onto his cock.

"Yes," he breathes hoarsely, eyes wide and dark, and then doesn't say anything for a long time.  She lets herself take her own pleasure greedily, lets her hips rise and fall on his, gasping with pleasure as the thick flared head nudges against that deep-inside place he touched before anyone else ever did, the place that makes her see stars every time.

She comes so hard it stuns them both, and she's only just in time to bite back a cry of pleasure so fierce it's nearly a scream. 

_Finally. Finally, she gets to have this again.  It's been so long._

His arms tighten around her as he guides her through it, holding her close, slowing down until her frantic gasps soften back into slow, deep, regular breathing, eyes locked on hers, drinking her in, biting his lip to choke back his own moans of pleasure as the muscles of her cunt contract and release around him.

"I've thought about the way that felt every night for seven years," he confesses.  "The way it feels when you come when I'm inside you."

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to stop hating you for leaving,” she whispers, tears stinging the corners of her eyes as her hips resume their fierce, deep rhythm.  

“I don’t know if I will, either."

“I just need you to stay.”

“I will.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

“I need you to be mine again,” she whispers, “all mine,” and a flicker of uncertainty flashes across his face, as though it’s suddenly occurred to him that swearing utter loyalty to Blodreina while he’s this compromised could be dangerous.

“I’ll never love anyone the way I love you,” he tells her, and it’s true, she knows it’s true, but it’s also not the answer to her question.

Her hips slow against his, then come to a halt.  She holds entirely still, his cock pulsing inside her.

“Say it.”

“O, fuck, I need . . . I’m so close, O, please . . .”

“Promise me.”

“We were together for six years, O, they’re my family now too, I can’t just -”

She rises up onto her knees, letting his cock slide slowly, slowly, slowly out of her.

“O, no, don’t, please . . .”

“Say it,” she says again, and they both know she’s not Octavia anymore.  If he wants to come, he needs to swear his loyalty to Blodreina. Different words than she uses with the others, but the same question:

_Choose._

He’s shattered by lust, desperate, his cock so hard it hurts, his hair a rumpled mess, his chest slick with sweat, and her cunt is aching something fierce too, more than ready for a second orgasm, but she knows she can hold out longer.  He got soft, six years away. She’s the stronger one now. He can’t break her.

“I’m all yours, O,” he pleads with her, reaching out, desperate, a crack in his voice.  “I’m all yours. Your my sister. You’re the love of my life. You can have anything. You can have everything.  You can have all of me.”

Victory.

And she's generous with him, after that, to reward him for giving her exactly what she wanted, so she guides them both down, flat on her back with him on top of her, and offers him the thing they both want more than anything in the world.

"You were gentle the first time," she tells him.  "Because it was new, and I was fifteen, and you didn't want to hurt me. You couldn't let yourself go all the way."

"Octavia," he whispers, eyes wide with shock, like he knows where this is going.

"Fuck me like you wanted to then, but couldn't," she whispers.  "Harder than any of the others.  Harder than Gina, harder than Raven, harder than Echo.  I'm strong.  I can take it.  It's what I want.  Fuck me so hard you're afraid it will hurt me, even though I promise you right now that it won't.  Fuck me the way you've been wanting to do it for the last seven years."

She thinks, for a moment, he'll say no.  Thinks maybe he's still too tentative around her, thinks maybe she's still too much Octavia, the baby bird he held in his cupped hands for the first fifteen years of her life.

Then his cock slams into her so hard she feels like her body has been ripped in half, and she realizes that for the first time in longer than she can remember, he heard her.

He gets it.

He _sees_ her.

He knows she can take it.

He knows when she tells him, "I want this," that she isn't a child anymore, but an adult woman who's had more than one lover and knows what she likes in bed.

And he's giving it to her.

She told him not to hold back, and by God he doesn't, pounding into her with the whole force of his muscular, powerful body, and it's _heaven,_ it's so good she wants to cry, her arms wrapping around him to clutch wildly at his back as she urges him on, lips pressed against his ear.

"I want all of you," she whispers between panting breaths, "I want more of you than you've ever given anybody else."

"You can have it," he tells her, voice rough and low.  "You can have everything."

"Come inside me, big brother. Fill me up. I want to feel it again."

The sound of his flesh slamming against hers is so loud it's obscene, so loud she can't believe no one outside has heard them yet, and the pounding of his cock inside an aching cunt that hasn't been fucked in years gives her a pleasure so sharp and fierce that she can almost imagine it burning the past seven years away.  There's nothing left but this, Bellamy releasing a lifetime of pent-up emotions - lust and protectiveness and loneliness and yearning and the desire to disappear into her so there would never be anything between them - so deep inside her she can feel him in her _lungs,_ so deep that they don't feel like two bodies anymore. 

She comes again, driven nearly to madness by his relentless, unflagging pressure.  Thrust after thrust after thrust.  She didn't know he was this strong.  She can feel how close he is, and she doesn't want it to be over but she also wants to feel him fill her up. Atom and Ilian didn't, and even Lincoln only did it rarely; there was an herb they got from Nyko that served a similar function to Bellamy's three pills, and made it safe for them to do it periodically, but it was rare, and they hoarded it, and after they settled at Arkadia there was no way to get any more.  So she hasn't felt a man come inside her in a long, long time.  Bellamy, of course, only did it the once, but when she dreams of that night - or, at least, when she used to; her dreams since the Dark Year aren't nearly that pleasant - it's the feeling of _that,_ the rush of liquid and the trembling and gasping and the look of shattered, desperate adoration and gratitude on his face, that she sometimes misses the most.

"Come inside me, big brother," she says again, pressing in tightly with the muscles of her cunt the way Lincoln taught her, and he does it, almost immediately, like she made it happen, like he's obeying her. It happens so fast it takes her breath away, he erupts inside her with a broken, desperate groan, rush after rush after rush of warmth pouring into her as his hips buck and stutter against hers.  As he starts to soften, his hand slides down between their bodies, fingers moving deftly through her folds to find her clit and bring her with him, once, then twice.  The first one is fierce, the second cascading off it like an aftershock, perfect fierce sweet little orgasms that leave her flushed and shuddering as his softening cock finally slips wetly out of her.

He doesn’t want to let go just yet, so he rolls over onto his back, pulling her close so her head rests against his chest.  Taking the cold hard stone against his own back, so he can be her pillow.

Six years hasn’t changed him at all.

“The pills last twenty-four hours,” he reminds her after a long moment, finally breaking the silence.  “I could come to your room tonight, again, if -”

“Yes,” she says immediately, sated cunt giving a throb of anticipation, instinct kicking in before her brain can, then “no.  No, we can’t.”

He can feel her wanting to say more, but she doesn't.  Silence, for a moment.

“You sleep alone,” he points out, finally.  “And I’m your brother; it wouldn’t be crazy to tell people I was sleeping on the sofa in your quarters while I’m here.”  He kisses her hair. “And we can be quiet.”

Against her will, she almost laughs.  “Since when?”

“We can _try_ to be quiet,” he amends dryly.  But she shakes her head, letting her tongue trace the outline of his nipple, then sucking it lightly until he gasps.  She doesn't want this to be over yet, but she knows at this point she's just stalling.

She rests her chin on his chest, looking up at him, meeting his eyes.  She has to look at him when she says it.  “When I leave this room, I have to put my armor back on,” she explains carefully, hoping against hope that he'll understand.

His whole face crumples.

No. He doesn't understand.

Her heart feels as cold and dull as the concrete.

“I can only be naked with you, Bellamy.  I can’t be that person anywhere else.”

“No one’s asking you to be.”

“I can’t do this with you again. I can’t get _used_ to you.  It was just like this the first time.  The more we did, the more I wanted.  I always wanted more.  And then, to get to have you just once, before we were separated for a _year,_ and I was _alone -”_

“O, please -”

“I don’t get to want things anymore,” she tells him flatly, closing her eyes, feeling the iron gates creak shut again, sealing her back up inside.  “It’s for _them._ Everything I do is for them. Nothing is for me. I can’t give you more than this.  Not right now.  Maybe someday, when things are different.  When we're in the valley.  After the war's won, after our enemies are gone, after it's all over.  It will be different then."

Something changes, suddenly, in the air between them.

Bellamy grips her shoulders in both hands, lifting her off her - not quite a push, but the meaning is clear - and sits up, moving away from her.  His eyes are flashing with something she thinks is anger, and she knows it for sure the moment she hears his voice.

"So it only works one way, then," he says coldly. "Because you just made _me_ promise, O.  You made me swear loyalty to you. Swear that I _belonged_ to you. You made me say it out loud. Choosing you over them.”  Octavia says nothing. “But you won’t do it for me.”

 _No,_ she wants to scream at him, _because that isn’t how it works._

There isn’t enough Octavia left to give him, when she owes all of Blodreina to everybody else.

"You'll never stop, will you?" he asks, but it isn't a question.  "Demanding all of me, but giving me nothing."

"So that was nothing, huh?" she snaps at him, hiding her pain behind petty spite.  "Good to know."

Bellamy doesn't answer, just rises from the cold floor and dresses in silence.  Knees drawn up to her chin, arms wrapped around them, like a child, she doesn’t turn around to watch him go, though she feels him hesitate behind her for a long moment - _will he? maybe? is there a chance? no, it's too late_ \- before he finally opens the door and leaves her.

She stays there, naked, cold, shivering on the concrete floor, for a long, long time before she finally musters the strength to rise and dress herself.

It helps, putting the armor back on.  Underwear, bra, socks. Pants, shirt, corset, boots.  Everything tucked neatly away. Walls all the way back up.

It’s not that she _wants_ this.  She hates him for not seeing that.  She wants to be the girl she was. She wants to be the Octavia he spent six years missing.  But he left that Octavia behind, and she died, and now there’s only Blodreina left, and Blodreina can only be loved one way - with entire devotion on one side, and unquestioned sovereignty on the other.

She doesn’t like that it has to be this way either.  But at the very least, angry though he might be, he’s on her side now.

Bellamy will never leave her again.

He promised.


End file.
